Morbus
by FritzyM4
Summary: "Morbus: from the Latin, meaning 'illness'." Short featuring Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker. Much pain for Obi-Wan...much angst for Anakin.
1. Chapter 1

Obi-Wan is shaking.

Or, not so much simply shaking as convulsing, his entire body bucking and writhing wildly on the Temple's med ward cot.

The collapsible bed's metal legs bang continually against the floor tiles, pounding out a jarringly loud and frantic rhythm of distress that causes a flock of healers to descend, lab coattails flapping like great white wings, upon the ICU room in seconds.

"_Chisszk_, he's burning up…"

"Strip him down!"

In the ever-practical fashion of healers, not a single thought is given to the ailing Jedi Master's modesty or dignity as his garments are swiftly and unceremoniously cut from his flushed and sweating body.

"Out. Now!"

A tongue-tied, scared-to-death, sixteen-year-old Jedi Padawan is propelled into the hallway just as the transperisteel folding screen slams home behind him with the grinding crash of a wounded accordion.

Anakin presses his nose flat against the faux glass, the palms of his hands splayed out on the cool panes to leave behind twin imprints composed of sweat and salty tears. Raggedy breaths and hot scalding teardrops obscure his already-impaired view of the frenzied activity taking place beyond the barrier now separating him from his desperately-ill, weakening – possibly dying – Master.

_White… The whole world has been bleached to a pure, sterile, blinding white. It's bright – much too bright – and it sears his eyeballs through their stiff slitted lids…_

_It is the color of everything that surrounds him within his blurry field of vision – even the giant cloth wings of the enormous birds wheeling about above him… It envelopes him like a newly-fallen blanket of Hoth snow, save for the fact that he does not feel cold._

_Actually, he cannot feel anything at all, which strikes him as being particularly odd, for some reason – _

_And then the pain slams into him again with the brute force of an ocean wave._

_Only this ocean is of acid._

"Get me his vitals – STAT!"

The flurry of medical personnel buzzes around the gasping, shuddering, wounded Jedi like a swarm of angry hornets.

"Master Kenobi – Master Obi-Wan, sir – can you hear me?"

Even down to the last of his strength Obi-Wan hasn't given up fighting, his arms raised to bat the voice away in an only half-lucent defense.

"He's hallucinating – "

_The flaming agony engulfs him like a chemical spill – oh! ohohooohhh it burns, it burns burnsburnsburns – leaking, welling, out of his poor torn stomach as if from an overflowing basin, pain doubling him over like that fat armadillo creature that had so fascinated him on – what was the name of the planet? and he lurches forward, struggling to breathe, in protest against the onslaught, spine creaking as it curls, tighter – tighter! reminding him of how the little animal retracted its soft, vulnerable appendages into its hard, impenetrable shell…_

_Like the prudent armadillo, he must protect himself from these huge, strange birds fluttering around him, these white vultures eager for a taste of his miserable scorched flesh, beaks and talons poking and prodding him, cawing to each other in their squawking indecipherable tongue, and they're hurting him – it hurts! how it hurts! – while their great white wings fan his face…_

_Force, what is that?!_

Healers bark sharp technical commands to an assistant droid that, armed with a plethora of insidious-looking implements that Anakin would describe as being better suited to the torture chamber than the healing wing, makes its approach –

_SPIDER! It is a gigantic titanium arachnid, all shiny black appendages extended, carrying venom in the glass hypodermic it holds…_

Obi-Wan reacts, instinctively and violently, and all present feel a mighty surge of panicked power through the Force before the droid crashes to the floor in a smoking heap of twisted wires and metal.

While alarms shriek and shocked healers scurry, another two droids rise, whistling animatedly, to take its place.

_One is dead, but more spiders come to avenge their fallen brother, their metal legs click-clicking over the polished tiled floor even as their fanged jaws clack and chirp horribly with their swift advance…_

The Master's back arches painfully as his body surges upward, face contorting in blind terror, and he tries to throw himself onto the floor in an effort to escape the droids that stand at the foot of his cot –

But the healers' strong arms are there to catch him, draw him back from the edge of the mattress, and press him down once more onto his back. Fearing self-injury to their patient, they are forced to shackle him hand and foot to the bedframe.

Obi-Wan's pain-glazed eyes roll in their sockets as wildly as a spooked eopie's. And then the screaming begins – tight, animalistic shrieks of terror that emerge without consent; cries Anakin has not heard since dusty Tatooinian winds scoured his skin raw-red as fellow slaves endured the wrath of Gardulla the Hutt…

And Anakin is as terrified as he's ever been in his entire life – maybe more so. This wailing wretch before him is not his Master. Those glassy panicked eyes are not the ever-tranquil azure gaze of legendary Jedi serenity.

Obi-Wan – cool, calm, collected, implacable Obi-Wan – never loses control, never betrays fear.

He does not scream.


	2. Chapter 2

Anakin listens until he can take no more, then slides to the floor and claps his hands to his ears, joining in the silent plea his Master unintentionally broadcasts over their training bond: "Please make it stop; please, please_ please_ make it stop…"

And so the Padawan can only watch helplessly as his Master yet struggles, straining against his bonds, while a lengthy course of injections (a painkiller cocktail) is administered, an IV tube inserted – thrust – roughly into his left arm, oxygen feeds threaded into both nostrils, and countless monitoring probes slapped onto his head and chest, bleeping alarmingly in time to the rhythm set by the crazy patterns now displayed on the main comp screen.

"Symptoms?"

"Flushing/reddening of skin; severe abdominal cramps – assumed nausea; labored breathing; slowing irregular pulse; photophobia; bizarre delusions – "

A soft whimper issues from between Obi-Wan's trembling lips as yet another needle pierces the thin and tender skin of the inside of his elbow; Anakin watches in rapt, sickened, attention as dark blood flows sluggishly into the waiting plasti-tube. "Run that for me and give me the results ASAP, C6."

But it is Mon Calamari Bant Eerin, head healer's first assistant and close childhood friend of Obi-Wan – not a droid – who hurries back with a copy of the diagnostics report.

"Temperature is a hundred and four, and climbing; pulse is below sixty bpms and falling –"

"Summarize. I need facts, not figures."

"Um… Stress response hormone levels are off the chart; and his sodium/potassium balance is all out of whack, which, along with the fever, accounts for his obvious delirium. His body is rapidly overheating and his heart is failing… He may enter cardiac arrest.

"Plus, his immune system's karked all to hells…that white count's way too high. And with a red count that low it looks like – "

"Oh Gods…"

" – internal bleeding."

"You wanted the summary; well, there it is." Bant slams her webbed hands down, the report sent sailing across the tabletop. "I apologize for my impertinence, Master, but…Obi's _dying_, vape it! And I'll be damned if I know the root cause behind it."

"Patience, Knight Eerin. Focus. I know it's hard, but we must keep calm and think clearly for an answer to present itself." Gathering the scattered papers, head healer Ben To Li pores over them for a few seconds (which seem like an agonizing eternity to Bant), hands sliding over his face pensively, until something of interest catches his eye.

"Says here there's trace amounts of an unknown compound present in his bloodstream. Testing almost didn't pick it up, it's in such low concentration… Though we both know it could be any number of extraneous factors – "

" – Let's have it analyzed anyway."

"C6 can handle that. Put Kenobi through a DOG - Digital OrganoGraph - scan…best to know what internal damage we're dealing with."

"He'll have to be anaesthetized – you know how he hates sedatives…"

"Afraid it can't be helped in this case."

"Right…but I'll administer the shot myself."

"A wise idea. And Bant," healer Li adds reflectively as he observes the dejected bundle of miserable Padawan huddled at the foot of the partition dividing him from his Master, "stay close to young Skywalker. He'll be needing a friendly shoulder to lean on."

At this, the slim fish-woman's lips part in a smile – a small, sorrowful expression out of place on her usually cheerful face. "Yes, Master."

Anakin looks up, startled, as a gentle hand is laid on his shoulder. "What are you doing sitting on the floor, Padawan?" Bant's salmon-hued face hovers above his, a genuine (if somewhat forced) mien of mirth upon it.

"They won't – that is, I haven't been allowed…inside," the boy starts rather hesitantly, voice thick and halting with anxiety.

"With good reason – you'd only be in the way. Give the healers room and a chance to work, Anakin. They know what they're doing."

Haunted eyes look up at her. "But they're hurting him…he's in pain… And he's afraid, so afraid – I can feel it through our bond…" Confusion seeps into his tone. "Master Obi-Wan's never afraid! Not even that time we were on Triost III and got trapped in a mine shaft – "

"Oh, he's been afraid. He's just of the breed who's very good at keeping fear hidden deep within himself. Did you know Obi-Wan's a clinically-diagnosed claustrophobe – he despises small, enclosed spaces?"

Anakin's voice betrays his surprize. "No, I didn't… He-he was so…calm through it all. He just sat there with his eyes closed – meditating, you know – and waited until the search party came… I wish I could be more like him. I was afraid." His voice trails off as his gaze returns to the floor. "I – I…am afraid." The boy's eyes narrow in disgust. "But the Jedi are taught, 'There is no fear'."

Soft, scaly fingers reach under Anakin's chin and tip it up until, once again, he is looking into Bant's liquid-silver eyes.

"It's alright to feel afraid, Anakin, as long as we don't allow fear to overtake us – to rule our thoughts," her hand ghosts across his forehead, "and, more importantly, our hearts," her palm settles itself heavily on his bony chest. She sighs. "Obi-Wan would tell you that himself, if he could."

Standing up, Knight Eerin moves as if to lead Anakin away, but the Padawan resists.

"No… I'd like - I have - to be close to him… He has to know that I'm here with him - for him."

And now a true smile breaks free across Bant's face. "He knows, Ani. Be sure, he knows."

Reaching down a hand, the Mon Calamarian pulls the boy to his feet. "Would you mind very much if I joined you in your vigil?"

The smile Anakin gives her fairly beams. "I would be honored by your presence, Master."

Flashing a brief grin of her own, Bant says, "What do you say we find ourselves a couple of chairs, then?"

Before the quest for suitable seating arrangements can begin, however, the closed sliding screen grates open a few inches and an arresting hand is raised in summons to Knight Eerin.

"The patient has been prepped for scan. Thankfully, the analgesic treatment has rendered him both calmer and more coherent - we'll need to administer the anaesthetic before we begin… And it was my understanding you were going to supervise the procedure?"

"Not just supervise – perform. I'll be there immediately."

Bant turns swiftly, laying a hand on the screen's transperisteel panel, only to find slim fingers grasping her wrist and a defiantly determined pair of sapphire eyes boring into her own.

"I'm coming with you."


	3. Chapter 3

A voice pierces through the pain-induced fog of confusion encircling him like a welcome shaft of sunlight…

"Hey, Obi…"

Bant's dear face is hovering over his like a salmon-coloured harvest moon, her concern and platonic love washing over him like ripples over the surface of a breeze-kissed pond.

Heavy lids shift and flutter softly before a pair of bloodshot eyes open to a world that is (thankfully) no longer blinding –

Obi-Wan fights, blinking lethargically, to bring it into limited focus. Now that the painkillers have finally started to kick in, a semblance of lucency has returned – but while the previously all-consuming agony has been beaten back to a localized ache (how wonderfully delicious it is _not_ to be submerged in that ocean of acid!), the medication appears to work through dulling the senses – _all_ the senses, even those not immediately connected to the pain… Indeed, it is nearly all he can do to simply concentrate on her gently lilting voice…

"Feeling a little better, now?"

A barely-perceptible nod is all he can muster by way of an answer. But –

_'__Where…?'_

"The Temple's 'sick bay' – again." It could be his imagination, but dry humor seems to edge the Mon Calamarian's words.

_Ah. Yes._ That would explain the pungent, sterile smell of bleached-white walls and bacta assaulting his nose… With some effort, he takes stock of himself, noting the numerous contraptions sprouting from every square inch of his body – and shoots them a look of undisguised disgust. The sore red marks around his wrists and ankles prove similarly disconcerting – had he been bound? Still…

_The Temple. Home…_ Relief floats and swirls giddily like an eddy on the currents of the Force.

Then a frown mars the smooth plains of his forehead.

"T-terrible d-dreams…" His parched, cracked lips feel made of lead, and it takes all his strength to move them in forming words.

"So we gathered. You've been giving me and the healers quite a bit of trouble on their account. All this fuss…we'd hardly expect it from you, being a Jedi Master – and such a distinguished one, at that…"

There comes a weak and quavering murmur from the patient in reply –

"N-not…_so_…d-distinguished…"

Bant's shoulders quake with muffled laughter. "No. Only _very_ – rumor has it there's an appointment to a Council seat in your none-too-distant future."

Obi-Wan struggles briefly to school his ashen, pain-creased face into a pathetic imitation of legendary Jedi sternness, and intones in a Masterly whisper,

"Future…al-always…in m-motion…Bantling. B-besides…not-not w-worthy…"

Her face coloring to a high burnt-orange at the use of her crèche nickname, Bant nevertheless offers Obi-Wan a sweet, knowing, smile.

"I know, I know – the Grand Master is _so_ fond of that particular maxim. But as to being 'not worthy'…wouldn't Yoda also say, 'Our own council we will keep on who is worthy'?"

The Mon Cal's perpetually damp, scale-roughened hand feels blessedly cool after the burning acid and oh so good as it soothingly strokes his fiery fever-blushed cheek, monitoring changes to his temperature, before moving up to smooth down wayward strands of thick sweat-slicked ginger hair…

_That's nice… Don't stop…_

Eerin smiles again and Obi-Wan's flush deepens with embarrassment. All those meds pumped into him are dulling more than just his senses – and must be affecting his mental shields more than he'd thought (or liked to admit)…

Wait… Mental shields…the bond - the bond!

Obi-Wan fumbles for a grasp on the Force, clumsily searching for the luminous flare that is Anakin's presence.

"Ana-Anakin… Where-where is h-he? W-where - "

"I'm right here, Master." And the sometimes wayward, but ever loyal, apprentice now materializes by his teacher's side to take up his limp hand and give it a firm squeeze - one of reassurance, as if Obi-Wan must be sure that what he sees before him is truly corporeal…not just a vision.

Obi-Wan eyes the boy critically (or tries to - though for the Jedi, there is no try). Though physically healthy, he looks almost worse off than Obi-Wan himself - if that is even possible. At the very least, it makes for an interesting paradox… The Padawan's eyes, which usually fairly sparkle with mischief, are darkened and haggard. Quick, though blunt, probing through the Force proves that his characteristically-bright signature is now tainted - reeking of fear.

"H-hello, Ani…" His tongue feels like it's been wrapped in several layers of cotton gauze – and it sounds in his hoarse, scratchy voice. He sucks in a scraggly breath, lungs hitching with the effort, and tries again.

"N-needn't b-be al-larmed…not-not t-too b-bad…"

Anakin could laugh at the irony, if one look at Obi-Wan right now wasn't enough to make him cry – he should be providing his ailing Master with whatever consolation he can…and yet Obi-Wan – ever-selfless Obi-Wan (who never could stand admitting to his own vulnerability if it meant drawing others' attention and worry to himself) – has deftly turned the tables on him!

_'__Got it rather backwards, haven't you, Master?'_

Instead, the Padawan offers his best smile under the circumstances, which comes across as half-hearted and less-than-convincing, at most, and falteringly lies, "I know. You're going to be fine in no time. Don't worry about me, Master…just get yourself well."

A derisive snort from the doorway heralds the arrival of Ben To Li.

"Since when is the patient – or his Padawan – the acknowledged authority on health?"

Entering, the head healer adeptly unclips the datapad serving as Obi-Wan's chart from the foot of the cot and scans through it as he inspects the monitoring probes' colorful readouts on the still-blinking comp screen. "'I'm fine.' You'd say that if you'd been flattened into flimsy by a speeding land-cruiser… Mind you, I'd believe that'd been exactly what'd happened to you just based on your chart…"

Fixing the younger Jedi with a pointed glare, Li adds, "_Kark_, but you're a pretty piece of work this time, Kenobi – what in the sweet Force have you _done_ to yourself?"

Unabashed, Obi-Wan levelly returns his stare through heavy, half-lidded eyes. "Th-thought that w-was for-for _y-you_ to d-determ-mine…"

A slipped snigger from Anakin at Ben To's expense earns him a silencing scowl.

Secretly, though, Li is pleased. Humor has always been Obi-Wan's fallback coping mechanism, and his employment of it indicates high spirits, as well as a relaxed state of mind – key aids in the healing process…

Eyes flashing with amusement carefully concealed as irritation, the healer snaps, "Impertinence…I simply cannot tolerate. For that little remark, Kenobi, I shall permit Bant to sedate you for the next procedure."

_What?! Hadn't he just returned to the land of lucidity? Already they wanted to send him back to unintelligible oblivion… Completely irrational – even by the Temple medical community's dubious standards…_

"It's for your own good, Obi," Bant cuts in before Obi-Wan can formulate a biting response. "We must use restraints to keep you absolutely still – and the machine can be rather…confining…after you've been in it awhile…"

What can he do? Obi-Wan sighs as the Mon Cal removes the soft pillow to ease his head down upon the mattress, wincing and hiding a grimace in the crook of his shoulder as her arranging of his limbs – legs out straight and separated slightly, arms flat, palms down, along his sides - pulls on his tender abdomen.

"Besides, Obi," she says as he flinches at the cold prick of the needle, "you're _so_ much better behaved when you're asleep. Now…_rest._"

The Jedi Master glowers at her sleepily. _Was that a veiled Force-suggestion? _Closing his eyes as the world grays and fades around him, his last thought before unconsciousness pulls him under is,

_'__Healers… Sadists, all…'_


End file.
